


Scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt.

by 3All_Just_Stories_in_the_End3 (sandwastesinthevoidofmychest)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, John Watson - Freeform, M/M, Self-Destruction, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-19
Updated: 2011-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest/pseuds/3All_Just_Stories_in_the_End3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things take an unexpected turn for Sherlock and John, and John realizes that he had somewhat subconsciously known about one of Sherlock's self-destructive habits from the beginning. (May be triggering)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt.

  
_'His wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker that before,  
      scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt.'-Richard Siken, Little Beast._   



 

“ _You **see** , but you do not **observe.** ”_ Sherlock's voice was like ice, had you been on the receiving end of him, perhaps you may have felt little stabs of frost run through your veins. 

Of course, this time it had been Anderson, but John still shifted awkwardly where he stood beside Sherlock's tense stature.

For the last hour, Sherlock, who had been in such an abnormal mood-even with a case, had been battling against both Donovan and Anderson's collective insults, which he deflected nonchalantly as someone well practised would do.

 

~oOo~

 

John wasn't quite sure when he'd started to notice it.

Maybe from the very beginning? He wasn't sure; he was no Sherlock after all and Sherlock _had_ just pointed out to him that after walking up and down the Baker Street stairs for exactly three months, he was still unaware of how many steps there actually were.

So three months since he had moved in with this madman. This fascinating, illuminating genius.

 _Bloody hell._   
He thought.    
_When it comes to Sherlock, I must sound completely starry-eyed._

There was no 'must' about it, he was. All those 'fantastics' and 'brilliants' must have added up, even in Anderson's mind.

 

Sherlock was bored, but he had insisted they go out to dinner to Angelo's tonight.

 

~oOo~

 

“That's what normal people do to mark milestones, isn't it?” Sherlock had questioned in reply to John's curious expression.

“Milestone? What milestone?”John had asked.

Sherlock; who had not moved from the sofa for at least twenty four hours just rolled his eyes, “You've been living here for three months exactly.” Sherlock said in an offhand way. “And you still don't know how many steps you walk up every day.” He added.

John was sitting in his armchair with a warm mug of tea in his hands and a medical journal open on his lap, he froze for a second, mug held in mid-air. “Three months? Really?”

“Mhhm.” Sherlock had closed his eyes again by this point.

John was still slightly confused, “Why is three months a milestone?”

Sherlock didn't move, “You haven't run away screaming yet. Milestone for three months.”

“People have ran away screaming before?”

“Idiots. All of them.” Sherlock replied gruffly. “You're different though.”

John couldn't help feeling warmer at this, it was so unlike Sherlock. “Good different or bad different?” He asked; he had to make sure after all.

 _No point in getting your hopes up._

“Good.” Sherlock replied. “ Although it's most probable that you are of a different opinion.”

 

~oOo~

 

Maybe John should ask, should broach the subject?

Every time he was about to, Sherlock would spurt out something amazing and interesting and John would ask questions and completely forget about the matter at hand.

Sherlock could be quite brilliant at distracting you, John should have realised that by now.

 

~oOo~

 

They left Angelo's after midnight and meandered home, stomachs comfortably full, cheeks red, and blood warm from red wine.

They took their coats off thanks to the welcoming warmth of Baker Street and as John went into the kitchen to boil the kettle. Sherlock shrugged out of his suit jacket and sat down on the sofa, leaving room for John to sit closely beside him.

 

He can't quite remember how it happened, maybe it was the rush of nicotine from his newest patch, or the wine, or the food, or just John in whole but all of a sudden they were both pressed together, tea long forgotten and tongues exploring each others mouths.

It was warm, John's lips were soft and Sherlock sank into the smaller man, he could feel his heart beating.

He _did_ have a heart.

But he only seemed to be aware of it around John.

He could feel John laugh against his lips, not breaking this kiss so that the vibration carried into Sherlock's chest and he smiled into the kiss, deepening it further, if that was even possible.

“Bloody hell, your heart Sherlock!” John laughed when they reluctantly pulled just the slightest inch away from each other to catch their breaths. John was smiling up at Sherlock, his pupils dilated and a soft smile on his lips, he placed his hand over Sherlock's heart, laughing quietly to himself.

As soon as Sherlock noticed that John's breathing had returned to normal, he leaned in to steal another kiss, this time he felt John's fingers move over to his shirt buttons and open them as they breathed in each others air. Sherlock trailed his hands down over John's cable knit jumper to the base of his spine and John shivered , smiling into the kiss as he did.

John had swiftly unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and he pushed him back onto the sofa as he removed the shirt from Sherlock's shoulders.

All of a sudden, John froze, and pulled himself away from Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his eyes to cast a questioning look up at John, but before John could speak, it had hit Sherlock as to what John had just uncovered. _Of course, stupid, stupid,_ his mind scolded him. He hadn't forgotten about his arm, it had merely been pushed to the back of his mind in light of this new completely unexpected turn of events between him and John that he was determined to remember every moment of, but surely he hadn't meant it to unfold like this, no, definitely not.

“What happened to your arm?” John whispered, his right hand was gently caressing Sherlock's scarred, pin pricked and cut left arm.

 

~oOo~

 

It looked like a crime scene and John wanted to catch the criminal who had inflicted such pain on Sherlock.

Maybe in the deep recesses of his mind he knew what Sherlock's answer would be.

He wasn't sure when he had started to notice, and he thought it must have been from the beginning.

It had been staring him in the face all along.

This mad, illuminating genius was human.

So delicately fragile like all the rest.

If you touched him he might fade away into the dust, like the mushrooms in the disused shed in Co. Wexford.

They were used as metaphors for the suffering, the ones outside of history, and here for the past three months before John's medically trained eyes, this genius had been crumbling in a self-destructive spiral.

Was it depression? That whole business seemed so... _human_ for this man.

Or was it surviving? Getting by when there was no stimulants for his mind? He had honestly told John about the drugs-the pin pricks were still a vivid reminder of Sherlock's colourful past, but that was the past.

This was now and there were fresh cuts and fading scars scattered across Sherlock's pale skin, standing out as though shouting for help, or the voices that were claiming victory and remained taunting until they gradually built up their army, until they completely took all control away from the man.

John had seen it happen before, he'd had patients; teenagers and adults.

It started out as a means of coping and survival and then viscously manifested into a lethal demon that was just waiting in the deepest recesses of their minds, waiting to spring on a bad day and bring some to the tops of buildings and into the choke-hold of a rope and there could have been so much said and so much done to help, but often the demon beat everyone to it.

John would never let that happen to Sherlock.

 

“Boredom rears its keen head in many ways, John. I wouldn't worry.” Sherlock's voice was soft and comforting to John, but it suddenly wasn't enough.

Now that John had gotten just the slightest wine-tinged taste of what it was like to be with Sherlock, he was never leaving.

He bent down and kissed Sherlock softly, and pulled away. “Never again? Promise me?” He whispered.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. His expression seemed to say ' _If only it were that simple, John.'_

“I've seen this many times before Sherlock, and you may think you're in control of it and maybe you are but one day you're not going to be able to beat it and this world would go to the dogs with its only consulting detective under the ground and only Anderson left on forensics. I care about you, Sherlock. I don't want you to do anything that might jeopardise your abilities and your life. It's a dangerous move.”

Sherlock watched John's face as he spoke, letting the words imprint in his mental fabric.

“Sometimes...it just happens. When my mind gets too crowded, it helps some of it escape.” He whispered. “I don't know why...”

 

John took a deep breath, “I'm here now. Come to me when you need to feel that, we'll work through something, anything.”

Sherlock's eyes welled up and shone under the sitting room light, “No one has ever said anything of the like to me and this has been ongoing for ten years.”

It seemed to be John's turn for watery eyes now, “Well I'm not just anyone, Sherlock. Neither are you. We'll work through this together.”

Sherlock's mouth stretched upwards for a split second, “Together?” It sounded like a foreign word to Sherlock, thrilling and dangerous, even destructive at the same time.

John smiled lightly at Sherlock, his eyes tired but completely sincere and still a little worried. “Always.” John mumbled, entwining his fingers with Sherlock's and squeezing once to emphasise his point.   

 

 **Notes:**

  

  *   
The extract of the poem that I have borrowed from for the title is [Little Beast](http://yupnet.org/siken/2008/03/24/little-beast/), by Richard Siken.   

  

  * The other poem referenced by John would be [A Disused Shed in Co.Wexford](http://www.thepoem.co.uk/poems/mahon.htm), by Derek Mahon.
  



 


End file.
